villain - - -
Jack's life had always been uneasy. His father's booming voice, yelling threats at his mother, shook the floor of his upstairs room. The boy had just turned eighteen and for as long as he could remember the two of them had been yelling, yelling about him. It was something Jack never really fully understood. He couldn't comprehend why he was always at the focus of their arguments - the epicenter of the explosion which led to a blast zone that blew away the love they used to have for one another. He understood that his mother loved him and his father wanted to 'fix' him. He grunted and, placing his chubby hands on his knees, got up off the floor and out of the teen fiction he had been reading.
Their arguing always made him nervous, as if the force of it would collapse the floor and he would go falling through right into the middle of their shouting. He began to occupy himself within the safety of his room. It was all he could manage in the perpetual wreck of his life. “Put out the small fires.” Dr. Sandy had told him, the ones small enough for him to handle. He kept himself as stable as he could (two of his toes had been amputated due to his diabetes) as he walked over to his desk. He pulled from his drawer a bundle of soft cloth and unwrapped it. Inside the bundle there was a bottle of hand sanitizer wrapped again in plastic. He peeled the plastic from the bottle, flattened it out on his chest and laid it down separately on his desk. He pressed a glob of the fluid into his hands and rinsed them.
He held his palms up to his forehead, his knuckles out, and shut his eyes tight. He began to create the world in his mind as he had so many times before.
There it was always spring. The wind rewarded him with the buttery smell of flowering honeysuckle and the robust, savory scent of ivy. The place he had come to was always this way, always affirming his curious wonderment with wooded mystery and old forgotten groves shaded by a coniferous canopy. The sound of the place was a mixture of creaking trunks and the tops of trees swaying perpetually in the wind. Pillars of green led up to a great rustling mass of branches and leaves that seemed alive beneath the crisp blue sky. The sun was let in only marginally, as a guest, its harsh nature kept soft by the blanket of growth which shadowed almost everything beneath. He opened his eyes just as a great sigh of wind shifted through the forest, a silent usher given definition by a subtle roar. Jack smiled and felt the breeze flow over him, cooling his worries, soothing them into condolences. His friend would arrive soon.
Bastion, an enormous purple buffalo, came clomping heavily into the clearing. The beast looked at Jack and grinned, it shook his wooly frame and scuffing at the grass and dirt with his front hooves.
“Hello Jack.” Said Bastion. The buffalo bent its knees and laid down. “Come here with me.”
Jack walked to Bastion and sat at the animal's side. “Where were you just now?” Jack asked.
“Oh here and there, say Jack, do you like winter?”
“Not at all...” Jack rested his chin on his knees. “Ever. Its summer time back where I come from.”
“Hmmm.” The sound was deep and rich. “You like summer?”
“No, but I hate it less than winter.”
“Sometimes, Jack, things have to change.”
“Things shouldn't change. I hate it. I like it here, things here are always like this.”
“Jack, listen to your friend.”
“Why should things have to change?”
“Sometimes things have to go, so other things can come.”
“What's coming?”
“Do you like snow?”
“No, I don't like the way it feels.”
Bastion laughed, it shook Jack's body, but not in the way of his father's yelling. “What do you think you would do if it snowed?”
“It won't snow. I said it was summer stupid.”
“Sometimes things have to change, Jack.”
He was tugged out of his dream by the slamming sound of the front door of his house. Downstairs he could hear his mother crying and the sound of his father's car driving away... The two sounds seemed to belong together. He re-wrapped his sanitizer and tucked it away.
“Jack? Come see mommy.” His mother was calling for him. She always wanted to see him when she was crying. “Come see mommy honey.”
Jack frowned. “I can't mom, I'm busy!” He yelled, without opening his door.
“Jack? Honey?”
“Not now mom!” He turned on his DVD player. A cartoon from Japan flashed across the screen - a show he had left running for weeks regardless of the television being on or off. Her sobbing faded away as he turned the volume up. He slumped into the chair in front of his desk and sighed. He shook the mouse connected to his computer and the machine woke up.
Jack clicked open several websites and began to type furiously - wreaking havoc on strangers passive-aggressively until he felt better. Eventually he heard his mother come upstairs and close the door to her bedroom. Jack turned off his computer and the DVD player and sat in the darkness, listening, waiting for her to go to bed.
When he knew he was completely alone, he himself began to cry. It was the frustration and inability of a child in a man's body - a poisoning of his soul. He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. Getting up he walked over to his window, wanting to see the world one last time before his restless sleep. Jack pulled away the blanket he kept over the window he gasped. “No...” He stammered. “It's summer...”
Outside it was snowing. He stared at the slow, winding flurries as they drifted and whirled on the other side. He licked his shaking lips and placed his hand on the glass - it was cold to the touch despite the warmth of the season. Then there came a sound from the darkness of his back yard - the overgrown and neglected thicket of brush and weeds - a groan - the sound of a man in pain. The groan began softly and then thickened as it grew louder and hardened into the words “Help me...”
He moved with as much silence as his bulky frame would allow. He turned the knob on his door all the way before opening it and pushing it silently outward. He didn't want to wake his mother. His weight put a strain on the old stairs as he walked down them, they creaked and popped underfoot.
His chest was heaving with a mixture of surreal nervousness and over-activity - sweat began to bead on his forehead. He had lived in the house his entire natural life so maneuvering it in complete darkness was something that came instinctively to Jack, however his heart was racing, and his labored breathing was causing him to be even more unsteady. Hectic thoughts raced through his mind - disjointed and unrelated. He was panicking. The hinges that kept him attached reality were already well rusted, and Jack, with his existing tenuous relationship with the world, was considering the notion that he might have inadvertently become completely insane. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs to justify the thought. Clearly none of his safety mechanisms were present, this wasn't one of his self-induced fantasies. He put a plump hand on his chest and willed his heart to slow. This was something happening in reality - he just had to figure out why it was happening or he would never sleep again.
He made his way through the cluttered hallway which led to the back door. He shuffled through stacks of newspapers and magazines. He stepped over dusty heaps of old clothes and broken, dime-store bobbles, elements of his strange childhood which lingered on, a constant reminder of his adolescent prison. The house was a sinking tomb of lost hope - a museum for people who were living in death.
By the time he had reached the sliding door to the back porch his heart had begun to burn. The throbbing of the organ was tinged with the breathless feeling of worsening fate. The strangeness he had seen and heard from his window would be beyond the door, in the night, somewhere among the overgrowth of the neglected lawn.
He grunted and pushed the sliding door to the side - its whining track objected. The normal humidity of the previous summer nights had gone. Instead, Jack was swept with a heaving of cold, dry air and the wet sprinkling of flurries that melted on his nose and cheeks. He was about to step outside when he remembered the broken porch light and went to grab a flashlight from under the sink. He walked over to the sink and crouched down. Retrieving the light he turned and felt his spine stiffen. A warm pool of incontinence moistened his inner thighs and ran down his legs as he flicked on the flashlight. The light had caused the bloody footprints, which trailed from the outside in, to glisten. Naked footprints, barefoot and red, watery with melted frost, were accompanied by further blood, small blots and drips that had been left intermittently between steps.
“Why?” He tried desperately to coax forth an answer that would not come. He began whimpering and slapping himself in the face. The wheezing continued, and he continued to talk to himself.
Their arguing always made him nervous, as if the force of it would collapse the floor and he would go falling through right into the middle of their shouting. He began to occupy himself within the safety of his room. It was all he could manage in the perpetual wreck of his life. “Put out the small fires.” Dr. Sandy had told him, the ones small enough for him to handle. He kept himself as stable as he could (two of his toes had been amputated due to his diabetes) as he walked over to his desk. He pulled from his drawer a bundle of soft cloth and unwrapped it. Inside the bundle there was a bottle of hand sanitizer wrapped again in plastic. He peeled the plastic from the bottle, flattened it out on his chest and laid it down separately on his desk. He pressed a glob of the fluid into his hands and rinsed them.
He held his palms up to his forehead, his knuckles out, and shut his eyes tight. He began to create the world in his mind as he had so many times before.
There it was always spring. The wind rewarded him with the buttery smell of flowering honeysuckle and the robust, savory scent of ivy. The place he had come to was always this way, always affirming his curious wonderment with wooded mystery and old forgotten groves shaded by a coniferous canopy. The sound of the place was a mixture of creaking trunks and the tops of trees swaying perpetually in the wind. Pillars of green led up to a great rustling mass of branches and leaves that seemed alive beneath the crisp blue sky. The sun was let in only marginally, as a guest, its harsh nature kept soft by the blanket of growth which shadowed almost everything beneath. He opened his eyes just as a great sigh of wind shifted through the forest, a silent usher given definition by a subtle roar. Jack smiled and felt the breeze flow over him, cooling his worries, soothing them into condolences. His friend would arrive soon.
Bastion, an enormous purple buffalo, came clomping heavily into the clearing. The beast looked at Jack and grinned, it shook his wooly frame and scuffing at the grass and dirt with his front hooves.
“Hello Jack.” Said Bastion. The buffalo bent its knees and laid down. “Come here with me.”
Jack walked to Bastion and sat at the animal's side. “Where were you just now?” Jack asked.
“Oh here and there, say Jack, do you like winter?”
“Not at all...” Jack rested his chin on his knees. “Ever. Its summer time back where I come from.”
“Hmmm.” The sound was deep and rich. “You like summer?”
“No, but I hate it less than winter.”
“Sometimes, Jack, things have to change.”
“Things shouldn't change. I hate it. I like it here, things here are always like this.”
“Jack, listen to your friend.”
“Why should things have to change?”
“Sometimes things have to go, so other things can come.”
“What's coming?”
“Do you like snow?”
“No, I don't like the way it feels.”
Bastion laughed, it shook Jack's body, but not in the way of his father's yelling. “What do you think you would do if it snowed?”
“It won't snow. I said it was summer stupid.”
“Sometimes things have to change, Jack.”
He was tugged out of his dream by the slamming sound of the front door of his house. Downstairs he could hear his mother crying and the sound of his father's car driving away... The two sounds seemed to belong together. He re-wrapped his sanitizer and tucked it away.
“Jack? Come see mommy.” His mother was calling for him. She always wanted to see him when she was crying. “Come see mommy honey.”
Jack frowned. “I can't mom, I'm busy!” He yelled, without opening his door.
“Jack? Honey?”
“Not now mom!” He turned on his DVD player. A cartoon from Japan flashed across the screen - a show he had left running for weeks regardless of the television being on or off. Her sobbing faded away as he turned the volume up. He slumped into the chair in front of his desk and sighed. He shook the mouse connected to his computer and the machine woke up.
Jack clicked open several websites and began to type furiously - wreaking havoc on strangers passive-aggressively until he felt better. Eventually he heard his mother come upstairs and close the door to her bedroom. Jack turned off his computer and the DVD player and sat in the darkness, listening, waiting for her to go to bed.
When he knew he was completely alone, he himself began to cry. It was the frustration and inability of a child in a man's body - a poisoning of his soul. He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. Getting up he walked over to his window, wanting to see the world one last time before his restless sleep. Jack pulled away the blanket he kept over the window he gasped. “No...” He stammered. “It's summer...”
Outside it was snowing. He stared at the slow, winding flurries as they drifted and whirled on the other side. He licked his shaking lips and placed his hand on the glass - it was cold to the touch despite the warmth of the season. Then there came a sound from the darkness of his back yard - the overgrown and neglected thicket of brush and weeds - a groan - the sound of a man in pain. The groan began softly and then thickened as it grew louder and hardened into the words “Help me...”
He moved with as much silence as his bulky frame would allow. He turned the knob on his door all the way before opening it and pushing it silently outward. He didn't want to wake his mother. His weight put a strain on the old stairs as he walked down them, they creaked and popped underfoot.
His chest was heaving with a mixture of surreal nervousness and over-activity - sweat began to bead on his forehead. He had lived in the house his entire natural life so maneuvering it in complete darkness was something that came instinctively to Jack, however his heart was racing, and his labored breathing was causing him to be even more unsteady. Hectic thoughts raced through his mind - disjointed and unrelated. He was panicking. The hinges that kept him attached reality were already well rusted, and Jack, with his existing tenuous relationship with the world, was considering the notion that he might have inadvertently become completely insane. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs to justify the thought. Clearly none of his safety mechanisms were present, this wasn't one of his self-induced fantasies. He put a plump hand on his chest and willed his heart to slow. This was something happening in reality - he just had to figure out why it was happening or he would never sleep again.
He made his way through the cluttered hallway which led to the back door. He shuffled through stacks of newspapers and magazines. He stepped over dusty heaps of old clothes and broken, dime-store bobbles, elements of his strange childhood which lingered on, a constant reminder of his adolescent prison. The house was a sinking tomb of lost hope - a museum for people who were living in death.
By the time he had reached the sliding door to the back porch his heart had begun to burn. The throbbing of the organ was tinged with the breathless feeling of worsening fate. The strangeness he had seen and heard from his window would be beyond the door, in the night, somewhere among the overgrowth of the neglected lawn.
He grunted and pushed the sliding door to the side - its whining track objected. The normal humidity of the previous summer nights had gone. Instead, Jack was swept with a heaving of cold, dry air and the wet sprinkling of flurries that melted on his nose and cheeks. He was about to step outside when he remembered the broken porch light and went to grab a flashlight from under the sink. He walked over to the sink and crouched down. Retrieving the light he turned and felt his spine stiffen. A warm pool of incontinence moistened his inner thighs and ran down his legs as he flicked on the flashlight. The light had caused the bloody footprints, which trailed from the outside in, to glisten. Naked footprints, barefoot and red, watery with melted frost, were accompanied by further blood, small blots and drips that had been left intermittently between steps.
“Why?” He tried desperately to coax forth an answer that would not come. He began whimpering and slapping himself in the face. The wheezing continued, and he continued to talk to himself.